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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887467">Car Wash</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis'>CaelumLapis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Smallville</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:56:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Car Wash</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>
  <strong>FRIDAY</strong>
</h4>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">There are three of them, all clad in matching Smallville High cheerleading uniforms and letter jackets. Three sets of eyes stare pleadingly at him, and the minor tension headache previously lurking behind Lex’s right eye is now thundering across the inside of his forehead from the combined force of their flowery perfume alone. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex eyes the flyer in his hand, already driven well beyond annoyance and rapidly approaching the exit for homicidal. No man should be subjected to three giggly teenaged girls hounding his doorstep and staring at his scalp. He has already declined several of their breathless requests to touch his head, and the one in the middle looks as if she is about to ask again.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“This is for charity, you said?” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The bolder one on the left giggles again and bobs her head. Lex wonders if all the giggling is depriving her brain of oxygen, and decides that it must be. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yes,” she chirps, “and it’s for a good cause too!”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“And if I agree to this, you will leave,” he replies, eyeing them expectantly. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Three giggling, head-bobbing affirmations in response, and Lex is just about to sigh in relief when the middle one beams a shy smile at him, her hand tentatively reaching up from her side. “May I…?</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“No.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">She looks as if he just kicked her favorite puppy across the highway, and Lex begrudgingly reminds himself that frightening local debutantes will probably not help his reputation. He signs up for a Saturday morning car wash and gets a bright red cardboard ticket for his efforts. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He makes a mental note to never answer his door again, even if he thinks it is Clark. He steps back inside and closes the door with a bit more force than entirely necessary.  Enrique glances at him nervously.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Enrique.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yes, Sir?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex snags the keys from their hook and tosses them to him with a smirk curling his lips. He is a Luthor, and his reputation was already irreparable. “Wait until they are within two feet of the gates, and release the hounds. Then you may go get the truck nice and dirty for me.” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He is not above declaring war on cheerleaders if it will discourage any future attempts to visit him. He steadfastly refuses to even consider allowing any of them within fifteen feet of his personal fleet of sleek sports cars, no matter how worthy the cause.  </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="wp-block-spacer">
  <p> </p>
</div><h4>
  <strong>SATURDAY</strong>
</h4>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Drumming his fingertips impatiently against the porcelain surface of his coffee cup, Lex eyes the laptop. Lionel is up to something, he can feel it. He reads over the email again slowly, measuring each word individually and in context. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Yes, there is obviously some sort of scheming taking place at the LuthorCorp tower. He hears the study door open and slowly drags his eyes away from the screen. Clark waves a hand at him, a disturbingly wholesome Adonis in worn blue jeans and white t-shirt. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Clark.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hey, Lex?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex glances back at the screen, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yes?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Where’s your hose?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex almost chokes and takes a deep breath, then blinks slowly at Clark. “What?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Your hose, Lex. I need it. Where is it?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex blinks again, then stares suspiciously into his coffee and ponders firing his cook and anybody else who had been even remotely close to it this morning. Clearly he is under the influence of some kind of hallucinogen. Probably some sort of retaliatory response to his motivational speech earlier in the week. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark gives him an exasperated look. “Lex, come on. I’m here to wash your car. Where’s the hose?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“You are. Oh. Right. Follow me.” Lex downs the rest of his coffee, the burn in his throat shaking him out of the dazed state his brain plunges into at the thought of Clark getting very wet while washing a very dirty truck. Enrique had gone off roading for the better part of six hours before Lex felt satisfied that the truck was dirty enough for charity. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark tilts his head, giving him a worried look. “You okay?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex is just fine, thank you very much. He closes the laptop and collects a handful of blue folders, holding them strategically. “Fine, I just wasn’t expecting you.” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He begins to plot the untimely and horrific demises of three bouncy cheerleaders as he rises from behind his desk and strides out of the office. Clark trails after him.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Well, <em>somebody </em>freaked out the cheerleaders so much that nobody else was willing to make a return trip,” Clark informs him, snickering.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“They kept asking to touch me,” Lex snarls, just barely refraining from a diatribe on the social graces of small town debutants. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark laughs and rolls his eyes. “Oh come <em>on</em>, Lex. Would it have killed you to be nice to them?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">A brief, thoughtful pause, and suddenly Lex doesn’t feel the least bit bad about the mud-caked truck waiting for Clark. “Yes.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark snickers and gives him a breathy imitation of a giggle, reaching a huge palm for Lex’s scalp. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">A fierce glare stops him. “Epic retribution, Clark. Possibly a family curse, at the very least the loss of your lower appendages. Yes,” a smirk, “even that one. <em>Especially </em>that one.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark gives him a wary look and drops the hand to cup his crotch protectively. Lex smiles benignly and does not envy Clark’s hand in the least. Not in the least. He opens the garage door and saunters through the cavernous space commandingly, an emperor to rows of gleaming metallic beasts lined up meekly before him. Shuffling after him, Clark looks around in awe. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">With some amusement, Lex thinks that nothing could ever adequately prepare a seventeen year old boy for a garage filled with European sports cars. Clark still trips over his shoelaces and gapes around him as he did on the first visit. Lex smirks at him and leads the way through the garage to another door, and out into a paved courtyard. He lowers gracefully into an iron chaise lounge, settling into the plush white linen cushions. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark looks around, his expression puzzled. “Lex?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex flips open a blue folder, crisp papers exposed to the brilliant caress of afternoon sunshine as he dons a pair of sunglasses. “Yes, Clark?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I’m here to wash your car,” Clark points out, reasonably. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“You mentioned that.” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex gestures imperiously to his left, fishing a glistening blue bottle from a small cooler beside him and uncapping it. “It’s right there.” He takes a long drink before setting it beside the chaise. He’d planned to observe the punishment he’d crafted for the cheerleaders if they dared return, but this scenario is growing admirably on him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark glances around again, and then sputters. “The… <em>shit</em>. Lex?!”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hmm?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“That?!”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Mmhmm.” Lex smiles merrily at him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark circles the monolithic beast of mud and stray bits of drying grass, a look of desperation crossing his face. “Is there even a car under all of this?!”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Truck,” Lex corrects, calmly. Accuracy is <em>important</em>. “The hose is beside the door.” He licks his thumb and turns a page in the folder.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark glares at him on his way to the hose, and Lex peers over his sunglasses at him. “It’s for charity, Clark,” he scolds lightly, with a faint smirk.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I hate you,” Clark mutters under his breath, unwinding the hose and lugging it toward the vast, modern-art mud sculpture that vaguely resembles a truck. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark heaves a sigh, staring up at the mud-caked truck as he runs both hands through his hair.  Lex licks his thumb again, turning another page and giving Clark’s ass a subtle, appraising look from over his sunglasses. With a determined set to his shoulders, Clark turns around and jogs back to turn on the water, gathering the bucket and soap and his other supplies. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Working up a frenzy of soapy foam, Clark fills the bucket and then turns the hose on the truck. Jets of water pulse into the dried mud, breaking it off in big wet slabs and spraying a fine mist back against the front of Clark’s shirt and jeans. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Safely away from the range of the hose, Lex ostensibly studies his reports, sneaking a look to study Clark’s progress every few seconds. The hose slithers past his chaise as Clark works his way around the front of the truck. Lex glances down at it and then up at Clark again. Clark is busy muttering wholesome obscenities at the truck, his slightly damp t-shirt beginning to cling to him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex lets his hand fall from the folder, resting his palm casually on his leg for a moment. He drops his hand lower, his fingers trailing idly along the taut surface of the hose. He gently, carefully nudges it beneath the chaise and then glances up. Clark is slowly circling the emerging truck, blasting the worst of the mud away with a steady stream of water.  </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Focusing his attention on the paperwork, Lex clenches his fist tightly around the hose, hearing a faint hissing whine as it kinks in his palm. He sets the folder down in his lap and takes a sip of water from the blue bottle beside the chaise. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">A moment later, Clark is blinking at the hose, which is currently demonstrating a remarkable lapse in water pressure. He pauses, shaking it gently. The water slows to a trickle. Puzzled, Clark studies the hose, crinkling up his eyes for a long moment of intense perusal. Several slow, pathetic droplets drip slowly from the tip. Arching a brow, Clark squints into the mouth of the hose as Lex loosens his grip, returning his hand to the folder in his lap.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark gives a startled yell, quickly reduced to gargling sputters of indignation as the full water pressure returns inexplicably to douse him from head to toe. Lex makes a show of looking up at him and sounding concerned. “Everything alright, Clark?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark shakes his head vigorously, water droplets spraying everywhere. For two intense seconds, Lex fondly recalls an exhibition of erotic male art that he saw in Venice. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yeah, fine,” Clark mutters, giving Lex a suspicious look as he turns the hose back on the truck. Lex looks innocently back at him, snickering inwardly. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark stalks over to the bucket, dropping to a crouch and soaking a wide yellow sponge in the soapy water. He stands up, giving Lex another dirty look over his shoulder before he focuses on scrubbing the remaining mud off the side of the truck. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">With a smirk that slowly curls his lip and then fades, Lex watches Clark scrub down the truck. He wonders if it is entirely normal for certain parts of Clark to wiggle in such an enticing manner when he does manual labor, and if so, how Lex could make this a daily event at the manor. And how he can get Clark soaking wet on a daily basis as well, because Clark’s clothing is suddenly cooperating very well with Lex’s goal to see as much of him as possible without making it obvious that he is looking. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify"><em>Reports</em>. Lex is reading reports. Fascinating reports. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">When the truck is coated with soapy foam, Clark yanks the hose with a bit more force than entirely necessary. He douses the truck quickly until its shiny red surface emerges, and then he pauses, blinking in apparent surprise as he studies the truck as if seeing it for the first time.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Lex?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hmmm?” Yes, Lex is busy <em>reading</em>, and has not at any point been fantasizing about staging a massive corporate takeover and plundering Clark’s considerable assets. Not at all. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark’s eyes are soft and wide, a Norman Rockwell fantasy on Christmas morning, awe with hints of wistfulness. His fingers rub over the side of the truck with a faint, slippery squeak. “It’s my truck,” he says, a tiny smile curling the edges of his mouth.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yes,” Lex stalls, studying the page intently. When was the last time he turned a page? He should do that. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Lex?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">For once, could Clark possibly leave well enough alone? Not that Lex has any intention of following this advice, but the truck will require explanations he is not willing to provide. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I’m done,” Clark says, and Lex glances up at the clean truck. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Oh. He is. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">
  <em>Wet. </em>
</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex has a morbid flash of a tiny train of thought derailing, sending screaming passengers and waiting commuters into early and permanent retirement. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“So you are,” he replies, and did that sound calm? </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It did, Lex decides. Calm and flippant. A very calm and somewhat flippant Luthor. Yes. Master and commander of his domain. Yes. Not at all the words of a man who is about to seriously offer Clark’s clothes any number of costly incentives to just go away. Far, far away.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“… and I was wondering if you would let me use your laundry room?” Clark is saying. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yes,” Lex answers, and even if Clark is planning to detonate something in there, yes. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Where is it?” Clark prompts.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify"><em>He wants me to stand up,</em> Lex’s brain announces, to nobody in particular. He considers a number of distasteful ideas as he leaves the comparative safety of the chaise. Generic brands of clothing. Argyle. Plaid. Clark working up a manly sweat in plaid. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">
  <em>Shit. Refocus, Lex. </em>
</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">His housekeeper’s facial mole that boasts twin, defiant black hairs. Cheap cotton t-shirts. Cheap, wet cotton t-shirts on Clark. Prison. Jonathan Kent’s shotgun. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Sleek rows of silent cars flank him, gleaming in the low light of the garage. He can do this. The wet squish of Clark’s footsteps pursues him, and slowly Lex’s blood moves back toward fueling thought. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Laundry room. Left after the garage door, down the back hall, and two doors from the first right turn. Built from the old spare armory room, the smaller and useless one intended for actual storage. Lex has been in there twice, if memory serves him. Pointless trivia, but it helps. Distracts. He can see the door now, partially open. The scent of something fresh and soapy drifts out to greet and calm him. Laundry happens here, a vague notion of things being clean and orderly, like the brief snatches of wholesome television shows he’d sneaked as a child. Reminders that the world outside of his was boring and simple by comparison. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Twin washers sit against the wall, sleek and dark grey machines with complex digital displays and circular doors. Facing them are dryers, equally grey and imposing, possibly devices designed by NASA. Lex wonders for a moment if they accept verbal commands. He pauses and hears the squeak of Clark’s shoes as he halts.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Here it is,” Lex announces, because it seems appropriate to do so.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Yeah,” Clark answers, studying the machines warily, as if they might suddenly come to life and start making demands. Or eat him. Lex would like to eat him. <em>Distractions.</em> He needs a distraction. Where are the distractions? </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“How… uh,” Clark makes a small, confused sound, studying one of the dryers. Lex is almost sure those are the dryers. Clark crosses the room and pokes gingerly at one of the digital displays. “How does it work?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I’ll show you,” Lex hears himself say, and this should be interesting. The dryer’s console suggests that it was designed by a sadist with a penchant for extreme multitasking and endless options. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex takes a deep breath. It’s a dryer. It dries clothing. How hard could this be? A tiny, mocking voice in Lex’s head reminds him of Murphy’s Law. Lex ignores it. He is Lex Luthor. It is a dryer. He will win. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark looks relieved, and then stares at his shoes. “I…” He clears his throat and waves a hand in the general direction of his torso. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Oh. This complicates things. It hits Lex then with the power of a freight train, the thus far suppressed realization that Clark is about to be naked. In the castle. With him. Does the dryer have a manual? Could he manage to read it without Clark noticing?  The thought of a manual is reassuring. Lex clings to that idea like a terrier, because tailored pants are a poor host to the lower half of his body when he thinks about Clark without any- Manual. Where is the manual?</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“…have a bathrobe or something?” Clark is asking. Lex nods, distractedly. A bathrobe. Or something. He has the net worth of a small country, and so logically, he has a bathrobe. Somewhere. Lex glances around the room. Closet. That’s logical. He will check the closet, and ignore the rampant closet-related commentary that his brain seems to find so funny. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Resting on a hook inside the closet door is a bathrobe. Lex decides that his housekeeper will get a sizeable Christmas bonus and a gift certificate to a spa. He offers the robe to Clark, who accepts it and then clears his throat quietly.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">There is an awkward silence. Lex glances briefly at the door, reviewing the list of potential reasons for him to leave the room and pointedly not thinking about Clark undressing. He has work to do. In his office. He should go do that. He should tell Clark he is going to do that. The expression on Clark’s face keeps that reason tucked away in Lex’s brain. Clark looks worried for a moment, and then embarrassed. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“You were going to show me how to work the dryer,” Clark reminds him quietly.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex does not think about how that would sound coming from anybody other than Clark. Like an open invitation for seduction. But this is <em>Clark</em>, and months have passed with looks that could be interpreted in other ways and standing in each other’s space. Lex has all but taken out a giant billboard on Interstate 70 politely requesting that Clark drop his pants. Really, only good taste prevents that from happening, and the small consolation of dignity. He does not beg. Not for this, and not from Clark. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Turn around,” Clark requests and Lex does, studying the door. He can hear Clark’s clothes making enticing wet sounds, stretching and dragging across his skin. Lex has pulled enough wet clothing from people’s bodies to know that sound. To know what comes after that sound. Not this time, he reminds himself. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify"><em>Distractions</em>. He has reports to read. Interesting reports. He should really find that manual. There is a soft rustling that is probably Clark pulling on the robe, and the sound of the dryer’s door opening, and then closing.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Okay. Show me,” Clark says, and Lex could show him so many- Clark is looking at the dryer’s console with a perplexed expression on his face. Lex could show him so many… ways to operate the dryer. Yes. And he will. Lex steps closer to the dryer, peering intently at the confusing array of settings and buttons. He presses a button and a tiny red light flashes to life. Clark’s wet clothing sits idly, mocking him. He turns the dial. Nothing happens. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He is Lex Luthor. He will not be foiled by a dryer. Lex narrows his eyes, glaring at the console. There are many places on the grounds where he could conceal the shattered remains of a dryer. He is aware of several tools in the garage that would aid in such destruction. He could hire people, but this is <em>personal</em>. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark leans in, the rough terrycloth of his robe causing friction along Lex’s side. Clark stays there, and Lex cannot decide if he wants to thank him or ask Clark how he became an expert in torture. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“What does this one do?” Clark presses a button hesitantly. The dryer rumbles to life. Lex glares at the shiny tag on the door, proudly declaring the manufacturing company of the dryer. A company soon to be acquired by LuthorCorp, and then sold off piecemeal to its competitors in a public auction. Lex will personally fire the entire design team responsible for this dryer. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He looks at Clark, all wet and tousled hair in a terrycloth robe that stretches around his arms and across his chest. Clark has a pleased grin on his face that should be irritating. It isn’t. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It is the one weakness Lex has, the grin that bares Clark’s teeth and somehow doesn’t prompt an automatic defense response. The one that starts at his mouth and ends in his eyes. Lex cannot think of anyone else with a smile like this, so wide and genuine. He doesn’t want to try. Seconds drag on and become minutes. Lex should look away. Should go. He doesn’t. Clark’s smile slowly changes into something else, something that Lex would recognize on anybody else. Would act on if it were anybody else. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It surprises the hell out of him when Clark does. He has a second to wonder what Clark is doing before he feels the soft brush of Clark’s mouth on his, can see the differing shades of green that exist in his eyes. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">When Lex closes his eyes, he can hear the squeal of brakes in his thoughts. The crash of a Porsche through a bridge. The touch of Clark’s mouth with the taste of river water, breathing into him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The dryer’s vibrations purr through Lex’s spine as Clark presses him against it. It brings him back to this, to the feel of Clark’s mouth, the wet slide of his tongue. Lex’s shoulders thump back against the flat top of the dryer, Clark’s hands touching his face, his throat. Stopping at his shoulders and squeezing gently like he knows, somehow, where Lex’s mind went. Clark follows him down, his hair dripping water against Lex’s face. Lex tilts his head into it, chasing Clark’s kiss back to him. The water on his face is the best kind of déjà vu. The car crashes through the bridge again in his mind, the sky wide and open for a split second of blue before the water rushes toward him. Before Clark woke him up on the riverbank with his mouth and his breath and him.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">This is more than that. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">This is just <em>them</em>, not a kiss to save him. Lex works his hands free from his sides and grabs for Clark, the robe moving away from his touch, parting and letting him in. Clark’s skin is soft over hard muscle, his fingers stroking Lex’s shoulders as Lex feels him out, pulls him in. Clark breaks the kiss and leans up, his hands rubbing down Lex’s torso. Lex breathes a protesting sound, grabbing the front of Clark’s robe and going with him. He tugs Clark closer, darting a quick bite to Clark’s lower lip. Lex drops his hands from Clark’s robe and braces them on top of the dryer, pulling himself up to sit. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He reaches out and grabs a handful of the robe where it opens at Clark’s chest. “Come here,” he growls and Clark does, pressing against him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex caresses his fingers down Clark’s chest, feeling the calluses on his fingertips catch over the ripples of Clark’s stomach muscles. The need on Clark’s face is so obvious that the breath catches in Lex’s throat, his hand finding Clark’s cock and wrapping tightly around it. Clark whimpers a plea and Lex kisses it away, sucking on Clark’s tongue. Lex jerks him slowly and Clark’s body is trembling, his breath faster. He bites gently at Clark’s lower lip and kisses along his jawline. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He wants to hear this, wants to <em>see </em>this. <em>Needs </em>to see it. Clark’s face is tight and flushed, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy and quick. Lex flexes his fingers, and Clark’s answering moan is rushed and low as he opens his eyes and stares at Lex. Their faces are so close that Lex can see the hints of stubble above Clark’s lips. Can see the beads of water in his hair, smell the water in his breath, so like the river. Clark bites his lip and his face strains, his hips thrusting his cock in Lex’s hand. He’s close and Lex wants to see his face when he comes, to <em>memorize </em>it and <em>photograph </em>it and blow it up larger than life. To have this be the billboard that sits on the interstate, that tells the world this was his. This <em>is </em>his.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark’s hand rises and grabs the back of Lex’s neck, holding their faces together, their foreheads warm and sticky against each other. Clark’s breath is hot and damp over Lex’s lips, his mouth open with sounds both desperate and broken. The wet slide of his cock is loud between them, hard and insistent in Lex’s fist. He shudders and gasps something that Lex will hear in his mind every time he looks at his replacement Porsche, Clark’s hips pumping frantic and needy, spilling come over Lex’s fist and his pants, wet strands of it falling over the fabric of his shirt. The expression on his face <em>burns </em>into Lex’s mind, soft in wonder and tight with need, with the heady rush of his body crashing into this, breaking through and plunging down. Clark shivers through it and kisses Lex deeply, sealing this into it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark’s breath is rough, his eyes opening slowly. They twinkle at the edges as the smile breaks over his face, and Lex can’t <em>breathe</em>. He will remember this, too. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark kisses him again, and when he breathes into Lex’s mouth it feels like coming home. Clark’s hand fumbles at his pants, opening them as Lex leans back, watching him. He will never get enough of this, the intense concentration on Clark’s face, the flush of his cheeks. Clark’s hand on his cock sends Lex into the river again, a rush of light and motion that is almost blinding. His eyes close tightly, Clark’s hand tethering him there with the touches of his fingers and the sensations between them. Every stroke of his hand winds Lex up tighter, arching his hips up into it, pumping between the vibrations of the dryer beneath him and Clark’s hand around him. He can hear himself sucking in air as if he is drowning, stuttered breath and groans like dying. Clark’s hand is fast and <em>ruthless</em>, holding him down and riding out the grind of his hips against it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Everything around him fades into the roar of his blood in his ears, his Porsche careening off the bridge, that frozen moment when all he could see was the blue of the sky.  He finds it again when he comes into Clark’s fist, the flash of wide blue sky flooding through his mind as he chokes out a cry. Clark is there when he comes back, pulling him into a hug with the faint taste of water on his lips. Lex lives in it, exploring Clark as if he could climb into him and exist inside. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The dryer buzzes beneath him, the pleasant vibrations stilling.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“It’s done,” Lex breathes out, and Clark grins at him.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“It is. We aren’t.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark eases the mansion door closed behind him and stretches lazily. The night air cools the sweat on his skin as he strolls toward the gates, the edge of a red cardboard ticket peeking from the back pocket of his jeans.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The gate creaks as he opens it and steps through, closing it behind him with a clang. The gravel beneath his boots crunches pleasantly.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He glances up at the moon for a moment and back at the mansion before blurring away into the corn. </p>
<p> </p>

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  <p> </p>
</div><h4>
  <strong>MONDAY</strong>
</h4>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hi, Clark!”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He slams his locker shut and glances at them, three bright red letter jackets and even brighter smiles. He can almost understand how they would have irritated Lex.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hey,” he answers, and their smiles brighten even more. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“How did it go?” One of them asks and the other two smile knowingly at him, as if they all share the grand secret of being on Lex Luthor’s nerves. The understanding is growing. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark shrugs a little and smiles. “Went okay.” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Did you get the ticket?” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“No. I think he lost it,” Clark replies, heading down the hall with them trailing after him.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Did he send the dogs after you?” The girl who asks this wrinkles her nose, as if she smells something horrible. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Clark grins at her, hoping it is not as sharp and pointy as it feels on his face. “No.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The girl in the center smiles at him. “Anyway, thanks for stepping in and offering to help. That was nice of you.” Clark thinks her name is Mindy. He isn’t sure enough of that to actually say it though. Her friends cluster around her, eyeing him expectantly. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Glad to help.” Clark heads out of the school and into the afternoon. The girls stop at the door. He is grateful for that. For their help. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Lex would have waited forever. Clark doesn’t have that kind of patience.</p>
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